Sherlolly WIP (title to come)
by Fangirlallthethings
Summary: It's three years after The Fall and Molly gets a text from Mycroft: "He needs someone."
1. Chapter 1

**AN: So here's my first try at fanfic. It's a sherlolly and I'm having fun with it. Hope you enjoy!**

Her phone made that ding noise and she set down her clipboard to check her messages. It was from a number her phone didn't recognize. Probably just an advertisement, she thought as she clicked through to see the text. But she could tell immediately that it wasn't spam.

"He needs someone."

She hesitated in deciding what to do with the message. She could tuck it away, save it for one of those lonely days when she needed to be reminded that she did count. But she wouldn't risk a scolding from Mycroft.

She touched the delete button.

And so what if "he" needed someone? She wasn't just "someone", right? Molly Hooper was an integral part of this ruse. She could break the whole thing wide open if she went to the right people. She almost laughed out loud at that idea.

Yes, let's completely and utterly betray the man who saved lives just because I'm feeling a little neglected and used, she thought as she dropped her phone into the pocket of her lab coat.

Asking for a day or two off from her superior was easy. He was quick to grant it seeing as she was a diligent worker. It wasn't like Molly Hooper could ever lie about an aunt's funeral she needed to attend. She would never lie.

If he only knew.

The funeral came to her mind then; the real funeral. John hadn't shown it, being the eternal military man that he was, but she saw the cracks beneath his carefully crafted surface begin to spread. She had wanted so much to tell him the truth. But that was Sherlock's first rule: John cannot know.

It was easier after that, to keep the secret. John went his own way, lived a new life devoid of Sherlock and his legacy. She hardly ever saw him. She was alone in her grief. It wasn't the "someone I loved died" grief that John went through, though. It was different. And she thought she had dealt with it. She thought it would never return.

Until Mycroft's message dinged its way into her life.


	2. Chapter 2

The drive to the country cottage was dull. Or maybe Molly was just too focused on her own thoughts to notice anything interesting along the way?

Why was she being contacted now? She thought Sherlock was done with his old life. At least, that's what he said when "it" happened. But considering what a self-proclaimed show-off he was, Molly always had a secret wish he'd throw off this silly idea of living incognito, of him never using his intellect again in order to protect his friends.

Come to think of it, she should have expected something like this to happen. But what was "this"? What was she being asked, or more to the point, ordered to do?

Molly pulled into the circle drive of the cottage just as another car was zooming out of it and that's when she got her first look at Sherlock Holmes in over three years. He stood barefoot on the lawn in his pajamas and dressing gown, yelling at the other car as it kicked loose gravel up behind it.

"How hard is it to make a bloody decent cup of coffee?!" he shouted after whoever was now speeding away.

Molly took a deep breath, steeling herself for this first encounter. What would he do when he saw her? What would he say?

What would _she_ do?

She stepped from the car and waited for him to turn around, but he continued to rant at the car disappearing down the lane.

"Hello." The word came out as barely a whisper, but he must have heard it because he went quiet.

"And what poor soul has he sent this time?" Sherlock turned. His uninterested look quickly fell from his face.

Molly thought she saw a few different emotions come over him then; surprise, confusion, maybe even relief. But they passed as fast as time does on a happy day.

Finally, his brows knitted together. "No. Absolutely not." He turned on his heel and headed towards the front door of the cottage.

Looks like he's settled on the emotion of rudeness, Molly thought. A grin tugged at her lips as she trudged behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly didn't rush to catch up with Sherlock. She'd already sort of resigned herself to this type of reception. Though, something along the lines of, "Molly, dear, so good to see you," or "Finally I can profess my undying love for you," would have been preferable.

Instead, she got Sherlock slamming the front door in her face. It'd been three years and things really hadn't changed at all.

"Sherlock? Please, let me in," she said.

"No," he yelled through the door, "Go away, Molly Hooper. You shouldn't be here. What has gotten in my dear brother's head?"

She took a deep calming breath. "He's… concerned about you."

"Concerned about me?!" The door flung open and Molly got a closer look at him. Beneath his green eyes were dark circles and his unruly, dark curly hair could use a trim. "He's not _concerned_about me. He just wants something from me. But this won't work." He leaned out the door to yell, "This won't work, Mycroft! Do you hear me?"

Molly flinched when he slammed the door again. This might take some coaxing. "Sherlock, you've been shut up here for a long time. I'm sure Mycroft thought a friendly face might —"

The door flew wide again, cutting her off.

"Ha! A friendly face? No, no, nonono, this is manipulation and I'll have none of it. Again, go away, Molly, I don't need you. Not you."

A heat spread over her neck and cheeks then. It wasn't an embarrassed flush, as she was used to especially when Sherlock was involved, but one of anger and hurt. She knew it had been a long time since that day he had come to her, _her, _for help, but she thought he might still have some lingering respect for her. Something akin to what he'd seemed to feel on that day.

Had he been using her then? Had all those sincere sounding things he'd said been lies? At that thought the anger she felt overrode the hurt. If he hated having her here so much then she'd stay. If it caused him discomfort, that was fine by her. The more discomfort for Sherlock Holmes, the better.

Before he could slam the door again, she stuck a foot in and came nose to nose with him. "Sherlock, I won't be leaving. I also have a key so it doesn't matter how many times you slam this ruddy door, I'm still coming in." He opened his mouth to interject with some hurtful words, she was sure, but she held up a hand. "It's happening. Deal with it."

She swept past him and into the cottage, taking not a little but a lot of satisfaction at his shocked expression.

_Oh yes_, she thought, _little mousy Molly Hooper has a backbone now._ It didn't matter that it was sort of a shock to her, too. If it left the great Sherlock Holmes floundering, she liked it.


	4. Chapter 4

Her chin held slightly higher than normal, Molly took a few confident strides into the cottage. She felt strong, commanding. She rather liked this side of herself.

It was when her feet slid out from under her did she realize she might have been too hasty in being proud of the new her. Her sensible heels skidded on something slick and she flailed wildly, searching for some kind of purchase, as she inevitably fell backward.

Thankfully something caught her before she embarrassed herself. Then the relief left her. It wasn't "something" that had caught her. It was someone.

"Really, Molly, you should look where you're stepping." Sherlock's arms were wrapped around her waist and his breath was warm on her ear. This was a type of closeness she had never experienced, in reality at least, and it made her want to rage against the heavens because her heart beat faster, her palms began to sweat, and her stomach fluttered. She wouldn't put it past Sherlock to notice these things. If he did, he'd think he'd have an advantage over her. That all he had to do was touch the base of her neck or smile at her in a certain way and she'd be putty in his hands. This was true, of course, but she needed to assert a certain amount of control if she was going to make it out of this cottage with her heart intact.

He helped her stand and she cursed whatever it was that had made her slip.

He waved eloquent fingers towards the floor. "I was upset about not getting a decent cup of coffee. I'm sure you heard that part of the one-sided conversation out there. Even a child could figure out that there could potentially be an angrily discarded cup of coffee somewhere in the house and that one should be careful when stepping inside."

Molly's hands turned into fists as he sidestepped the puddle of coffee and disappeared into a room on the right.

She fell against the wall next to her and looked up at the ceiling, praying for patience.

His voice echoed out of the room, "If you're really staying, Molly, would you like some coffee?"

She was stunned, to say the least. Was Sherlock Holmes actually suggesting that he would make coffee for her, make her feel comfortable?

Her head rolled toward the doorway he'd gone into and it startled her when he stuck only his head out to look at her with eyebrows raised and a questioning glimmer in his eyes.

"That would be lovely, Sherlock," she said on a sigh.

"I agree," he said and a genuine smile took over his mouth. "I'll have it black, two sugars as you remember, I'm sure."


End file.
